


Shore-leave and the Vulcan science officer

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-26 14:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock has a pony problem.  Jim has a different pony problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shore-leave and the Vulcan science officer

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen the My Little Pony series and am only familiar with the (late 1980s versions of the) toys, of which I still have a box full. No offence to fans of either is intended. This is, pure and simple, crack. You have been warned. ;-) Beta'd by the superbly patient [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[nix_this](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/).  
> 

Everyone in Starfleet learns soon enough that Starbase 22 is basically the cheap wedding hall buffet of shore-leave destinations; pleasant and wholesome enough, but not actually _exciting_. Greener members of the crew would assemble eagerly at the transporter, excited to beam down and stretch their land legs for a while. The more seasoned (by all of three months) officers would hang back, happy to take their turns later, if at all. (Jim later confirms that overdue-but-non-critical maintenance, code upgrades, and even pending paperwork and protocol implementations all tend to see a significant reduction in backlogs directly coinciding with the _Enterprise_ 's visits to Starbase 22. Perhaps something to consider the next time his Outstanding Requisitions inbox starts threatening to collapse in on itself?)

But that isn't the Thing. His people skipping shore-leave on the Federation's Most Tedious Starbase (3 years running!) to take extra care of his _Enterprise_? Totally not a Thing with which Jim Kirk has any grievance.

The Thing concerns Spock.

And ponies.

Small, brightly-coloured, plastic toy ponies. That everyone says are _adorable_.

And the first one, the very first one—the originating bacillus of their little epidemic—came aboard at Starbase 22, tucked securely into the strong arms of the stern-faced Commander Spock. Jim pulls up the security footage of that fateful day, sees himself waiting in the transporter room to meet Spock (because that was the friendly thing to do, and not at all because he needed to tell someone how awesome he’d been making those modifications to the navigational array’s gravitational analysis subsystem and no one else aboard would both understand what the hell he was talking about and listen to him long enough to appreciate his aforementioned awesome). And there it is, video-Spock materialising, bringing Typhoid Pony aboard. Video-Jim opening his mouth to say something and then doing a hilarious double-take. Video-Spock raising an eyebrow as if to say _Are you well, Captain?_

That was six months ago.

Since then, Jim’s Very Vulcan Vassal has somehow contrived for the _Enterprise_ crew to have more rounds of shore-leave than any other crew aboard any other ship in the fleet.

Ever.

It’s almost as if he’s trying to outdo all those other first officers.

It’s not a problem--yet--but his proposed shore-leave destinations are invariably… interesting.

Satellite market stations. Bazaars. Starbases on planets so boring that the only reason you’d _want_ to leave the ship is to replenish supplies or else meet new people—places where the natives start begging for permission to board for a break from the monotony the instant the _Enterprise_ makes orbit. (Bones is the only crew member who wholeheartedly approves of Spock’s shore-leave selections. Of course, Bonsey’s standards are somewhat low. If it has breathable atmo and isn’t populated by acid-spitting insects then it’s ‘a damn sight better than any godforsaken death trap of a starship’, as far as he’s concerned.)

Many of these shore-leave requests are granted without comment by the Starfleet higher-ups; Jim privately suspects this has less to do with raising _Enterprise_ crew morale and more to do with raising the morale of the poor schmoes stationed on the galaxy’s most boring outposts.

Anyways, from each of his jaunts down to these unusual shore-leave destinations, Spock manages to return clutching at least one cheerful plastic horsey figurine.

Jim’s a genius. It doesn’t take him all that long to work out that the horse-things are _the whole point_ of these shore-leave destination choices.

The fact that the editors of the prestigious _Tomorrow’s Sociology Today_ academic journal have sent a letter asking that he please, please, pretty please restrain his Chief Science Officer from submitting any more articles in the same vein as his recent ‘Sociology and Marketing of Small Equine Collectibles’ et cetera merely confirms his brilliant hunch.

Clearly, this is something he is going to have to speak to Spock about. Probably he should compose a carefully-arranged outline of their discussion, complete with tactful ways to bring up the difficult subject of personal bias adversely affecting—

Oh, screw it.

He slams the button on his chair arm. “Kirk to Spock.”

“Spock here, Captain.”

“I need a word with you, ASAP.”

“I am presently in my quarters. Will that be convenient?”

“I’ll be there in five.” He clicks the channel closed. “Uhura, you doing anything interesting?”

“Not especially.”

“Then you have the conn. Enjoy.”

“Aye, sir.”

Spock is, indeed, in his quarters. With one hand, he’s adding to the draft article projected large on the back wall: The Aesthetic Appeal of Enlarged Eyes in Sculpted Representations of Benign Quadrupedal Life-forms. His other hand absently strokes the glittery blue mane of the purple, non-mechanical, nonreactive toy pony in his lap. Weird.

Possibly Jim stares just a little too long, because Spock asks with that impeccable, yet somehow faintly insulting, politeness of his--and without looking up from his document--“You wished to speak with me, Captain?”

“Yeah.” Jim rubs at the back of his neck. “Uh, Spock? About all these shore-leaves you’ve been requesting.” He casts about for somewhere to sit, but there’s only the one chair, the one Spock is sitting in. Presumably he’s decided that it’s most logical to meet others outside his private quarters, and it’s therefore illogical to requisition a second chair. With an effort, Jim locates an area of wall which is not full of hanging Vulcan artefacts _or_ the extra shelving Spock’s put in to accommodate his toy collection, and leans manfully there. “It, uh... Looking in from the outside it might just possibly be thought that you were requesting shore-leave in these particular places mainly in order to pursue your own… uh, interests. Which wouldn’t be, you know--” he fumbles for the right, tactful term “--seemly and shit.”

Spock dismisses the document he’s been working on as he turns in his chair, apparently not noticing that it’s merely replaced with the one underneath: What Animated Fictional Narratives Involving Stylised Ungulate Mammals Can Tell Us About The Human Desire for ‘Friendship’, along with Brief Postulates on the Occult Connection. “Shore-leave, regardless of destination, has a positive effect on crew efficiency.”

“Even if half of them don’t get to enjoy it because they’re just not interested in the destination?”

Eyebrow. “Yes, Captain. Even then.”

 _Okay,_ Jim thinks, _walked right into that one._

“I have been preparing a report on the matter,” Spock adds helpfully, and turns back to his terminal to pull up the report in question. It appears to be mostly complex mathematical equations and references to appendices. Disturbingly, there is an Appendix Z. Jim shudders, hoping he is not the intended recipient of this report. Spock spins his chair back around to face Jim. “I believe it will conclusively demonstrate that although the primary effect of a positive shore-leave experience at a destination with recreational opportunities rated as ‘good’ or ‘excellent’ is, indeed, a short-term boost in crew performance thereafter, a previously unrecorded effect also occurs in the absence of such high-quality facilities. This effect is perhaps best exemplified by Mister Scott, who assures me that the lack of satisfactory vintages of ale on any given Starbase is proof absolute that ‘whatever gods an’ beasties there may be’ are encouraging him to make eccentric but brilliant engine modifications instead of availing himself of the dubious shore-leave opportunities available.”

It’s a little hard to remain sceptical in light of the reminder about Scotty’s latest awesome engine mods, but Jim feels the subject is important enough to warrant the effort. “So it’s all for the good of the ship, then, you're telling me. You have only our collective good at heart.” Jim watches carefully, and Spock’s gaze most definitely flicks down to the purple pony he’s still fondling.

“Indeed,” Spock says. “Why would any rational person think otherwise?”

Jim forces himself to stop looking at Spock’s pony. “And just how many academic articles have you been churning out lately?”

Spock’s head tilts slightly to one side as if he’s considering how best to answer that. As if he’s expecting rebuke. Has he perhaps been dressed down for article-bombing academic journals in the past? “Per week?” he suggests.

“Yeah, sure.”

“4.32. On average. I am pacing myself.”

Jim strongly suspects that if pressed, Spock would admit that this average was taken over a much longer period than would normally be expected from the descriptor ‘lately’. He tuts. “All work and no play makes Spock a very dull boy.”

Spock’s lips purse briefly. “I thank you for your concern. But I have ample time to devote to leisure activities.” The corner of Jim’s vision catches him twirling the pony’s sparkly tail around his finger. “I read, play the lyre, correspond with surviving Vulcans, and am currently devoting six and one half hours per Terran week to the study of the Russian language, as recommended by Ensign Chekov in order to facilitate a full and proper understanding of Earth’s history.”

Jim finds he doesn’t actually like watching Spock squirm in that all-below-the-surface, very Vulcan way. Yeah, he could just force the guy to spend more time in the science labs or something, but perhaps there’s a better, gentler way he can handle this? “Spock, are you sure that you’re spending enough time in social interaction? It’s important, you know.”

“Since Lieutenant Uhura and I agreed to ‘take a break’, my time engaged with crew-mates while off-duty has certainly decreased,” Spock allows after a brief pause.

Jim pounces on that. Metaphorically. “Okay. It’s almost dinner time. Come eat with me.” As ideas go, it isn’t inspiring. But it is timely, so Jim’ll take it. Besides, it’s not like an invitation to get drunk and watch basketball would be all that appealing to a Vulcan, is it?

Spock frowns. “You desire a more personal relationship with me?”

Jim twitches. Spock thought he meant a date? “Um, okay?” He’s kind of got a mild phobia about people who play with dolls. It goes back to this really, really creepy girl back in Iowa who—best not to think about that. And was possibly not helped by those aliens a while back who'd captured his landing party and—best not to go there, either. But Spock _does_ have many good qualities. And Jim’s long wanted to put to the test what everyone says about how Spock can thoroughly kick anyone’s ass at tridimensional chess. So _maybe…_ “Yeah, sure,” he says, smiling. “We could totally try the dating thing, you and me. Starting with dinner now, yes?”

“That would be agreeable.” He rises. “Are you amenable to dining in our duty uniforms?”

“Sure am.”

Spock moves towards the door, which whooshes open slightly faster than usual. Which is perhaps unsurprising, given that their last shore-leave stop had been the Davison Colony (population 23, chief features 260,000 hectares of wheatfields and grain silos, a shitload of automated farm equipment, and a small gift shop).

“Uh, Spock? Just one thing.” Spock stops in his tracks and the door whirs softly, unable to decide whether he is going out or staying in. “Can we leave the horsey here?”

“Certainly,” Spock says, rather primly. As Jim watches, he crosses the room, pulls back a curtain on the far wall to reveal a shelf on which are arrayed _even more_ multi-coloured plastic ponies. All staring at him. With their huge, alien eyes and their weird, grinning faces. Spock slips the purple one into place between a banana-yellow unicorn foal with turquoise hair and a peach-coloured one with little fluffy wings.

Jim shudders.

***

Okay, so Spock is legitimately the best boyfriend Jim has ever had. He’s considerate, makes an effort to understand where you’re coming from, never seems to have bad days or bad moods, has a high respect for the human male libido and finds it logical—during off-duty hours—to indulge the same. Jim suspects the guy has not the first clue just how freaking sexy he is.

Jim’s doing his best to get used to their… audience. He is, really he is. And it’s not a problem when he’s topping, all his attention focused on making Spock fucking _lose it_ , or when they do it in the challenging confines of their tiny shared shower stall (though there _is_ a sort of sea-horse thing in there, which either sits propped up on the shampoo holder or else floats in its little floaty ring in the sink, its temperature-controlled colour-change hair slipping from yellow to orange and back again as the shower’s adjusted). But when Jim bottoms, when he’s obliged just to lie there with his legs open and let Spock go to town… or when Spock’s making one of his earnest scientific enquiries into Optimal Blowjob Techniques or whatever, Jim’s head has a tendency to loll in just such an inconvenient direction that his gaze will land on one of the shelves where the evil plastic horses stand, watching, looking ready to gallop forward like an unmanned cavalry charge and—

The thought of being gored to death by tiny plastic unicorns is a very effective boner-killer.

Really, Jim’s beginning to wonder whether it would be a bigger embarrassment to book Spock in for therapy for his horse-toy-collecting addiction, or himself in for treatment of his obviously debilitating plastic horse phobia.

“Spock,” he says, “Spock,” just as Spock’s free hand is descending for one of his kinky little sex-enhancing mind-melds. “Don’t you think you have enough ponies? Surely you don’t need to buy up the universe’s entire stock of the things?”

Spock pauses in his stroking of Jim’s dick back to attention. “You believe my collection is growing excessive?”

“Well, there’s no way it can ever be a comprehensive collection, right? They wouldn’t all _fit_ in your quarters. So a line has to be drawn somewhere. Why not here? You have a beautiful collection. Aren’t they enough for you?”

Spock frowns for thirteen seconds. Then his expression eases and he gets back to business. He even seems a little smug, like he’s just thought of something very clever.

Jim has a sense that the sudden uneasiness in his gut isn’t entirely due to Bones’s new Heart Healthy diet.

***

Jim gets a mottled pink and white plastic pony for his birthday. Her name is Princess Hyacinth, and the awful poem on her packaging helpfully informs Jim that her favourite things are looking after injured friends, eating green apples, and strolling through the woods in the early evening. (Her turn-offs aren’t listed, but he guesses mean people, spurs, and rainy days without rainbows.) Jim doesn’t open the packet, and when Spock asks him about it he says he wants to keep her Mint in Box. You know, preserve a piece of history for the future. Spock looks at him like he’s making a great and noble sacrifice, and offers to blow him in the shower.

Shore-leave comes again and Spock’s quarters don’t acquire any more denizens. But Mister Scott receives a pale aqua pony with a large thistle flower painted on its rump and a tiny set of bagpipes. How a pony is supposed to play bagpipes no one seems to know, though in the course of his standard nosing around in the more public areas of the ship’s computer network Jim has seen some theoretical musings on the subject being circulated between the departments of Biology and Engineering.

Nurse Chapel is in the mess one morning, cooing over a pure white pony with blue hair and a starchy old-fashioned nurse’s cap.

A sparkly orange pony dressed as a World War I flying ace appears on Uhura’s console the morning after _her_ birthday. It’s just about the most obnoxious thing Jim’s ever seen, and it doesn’t escape his notice that she leaves it behind when she goes off shift.

The navigator’s station is newly adorned by a pearlescent pony with a distinctly Russian-looking grey fur hat.

Soon the things are popping up _everywhere_. The crew can be seen carrying them here and there, asking each other in puzzled voices if they know who’s doing the secret admirer thing. Security keeps getting called to personal quarters after unauthorised access, to find that nothing’s missing but something extra has been left on someone’s pillow. Soon there’s barely a conference table on the ship that isn’t watched over by a cheerful-looking plastic horse with a clipboard. Fifteen fillies with bright pink hard hats now guard the top of the main transporter console. There’s even a particularly disgruntled-looking blue pony on Bones’s desk when Jim goes down to Sickbay one evening to share some bourbon and some bitching.

It’s almost like the ship’s been invaded.

“Bones,” Jim says, directing a warning glare at the intruder on the desk, “this has got to stop. If I work any harder to distract Spock from ponies, my dick’s gonna fall off.”

Bones snorts. “Can’t recommend that, Jim. Dick reattachment ain’t one of my specialties, we’d have to put it on ice an’ take you to Starbase.” He finishes pouring their drinks, twists the metal cap back on the bottle. “And you _know_ what that would mean.”

Jim groans. “Yeah, while we rational types were all tied up in surgery taking care of James The Kirktastic, Spock would sneak off to the store and—”

They share a look. Then they drink up.

***

The intervention takes place on the main recreation deck—has to, with over two hundred crew in attendance. The absolute best thing about it is that it’s news to Jim. Well, okay, not _news_ exactly. But he had nothing to do with planning it, or even spreading the word. And it’s news to him that he’s invited—well, perhaps _required_ would be the better word, given how forcefully Uhura is insisting he accompany her up onto the low stage.

From the other side, someone leads in a confused but composed looking Spock. He’s wearing his off-duty black robes, and the green-maned head of a salmon pink seahorse pokes out, periscope-like, from one pocket.

“Commander Spock, sir!” says the engineering ensign who seems to have been appointed crew spokesperson, stepping forward past lines of colleagues waving ponies like accusations. “We’ve had enough of the horses, thank you. No more horses. In fact, we’d like to ask that Captain Kirk exercise his authority as captain of this vessel and ban the damn things from the _Enterprise_. No offence, sir, but enough is enough.”

Spock’s eyebrows have disappeared up behind his bangs, and his hand is in his pocket, clutching the sea horse as if it’s about to be stolen from him by the mob. He looks pleadingly at Jim, who feels a brief stab somewhere inside where he’s squishy and vulnerable and possibly ever so slightly in love.

“I think that would be a slight overreaction,” he announces to the assembled hordes. “But I think we can come to some kind of understanding with the Commander whereby he gives out no more unwanted gifts—”

Spock hangs his head in defeat.

The rec hall fills up with whoops and cheers.

***

The downside, of course, is that Spock adopts (re-adopts?) at least a hundred ponies from unappreciative crewpeople. Has to requisition _even more_ shelves to hold them all. But he’s happy. He’s happy. And they can always have sex in Jim’s quarters, right?

Yeah, they’ll do that. Nothing to spy on them in there with weird plastic eyes. Spock “finds the ambience less conducive to amorous enterprise”, but he’ll live.

 _Yes, yes,_ Jim thinks, tapping the entry panel. _All will be well._ The doors to his quarters swoosh open and he steps in, some of the weight of command leaving him as he permits himself to switch from Captain to private individual.

He’s just in the process of toeing off his right boot when something on his bed catches his eye.

Jim swallows.

Sticking out from beneath the pillow, shocking blue against his silvery mattress, is a tell-tale, well, tail.

_They’re everywhere. Everywhere!_

Jim forces his foot back into its boot. On second thought, he’s pretty sure they still need him up on the bridge...

***END***


End file.
